Page 84 of Untamed Coast

Willard chuckled. “Oh, yeah, Gold Guy. Of course. You’re famous around here now.”

“Yeah, it would appear so,” Marco said. “Listen, I called about another matter. I wanted to be sure a couple items of mine were on the stolen property list from the break-ins at the Baranof Marine boatyard.”

There was a pause before Willard replied. “Baranof Marine…I don’t remember anything about that. You sure our department handled it?”

Marco was already wishing he hadn’t called. “Yeah, well, they said they were doing a police report. Some boats were broken into in the yard. Who else would they have called?”

“Well, that would have been us.” Willard’s tone had changed. “But I haven’t heard anything about it. Let me check, hold on a minute.”

Willard came back on the line. “You still there? I checked. No reports of anything like that from Baranof Marine. When do you say this break-in was? Last week?”

“Yeah, I—not much was taken from my boat, at least.” Marco’s stomach twisted as the image of Radio Flyer’s empty dashboard flashed in his mind. “Two old journals I found near Radioville that I was studying and…this sounds silly…a Ketchikan snow globe. It has a sentimental attachment. Actually, that’s the main thing I’d like to recover if you get anything from this. It’s a regular tourist snow globe, but with my late wife’s name and some info engraved on the bottom.”

“Well, we’re not likely to…I mean, there’s not even a police report. Would you like to file one? You could come in, or I could take it over the phone.”

Marco just wanted to hang up. “No, I’ve already left town. Just, if it happens to turn up, can you give me a call? I appreciate your help.”

“I’ll keep a sharp eye out.” Willard’s voice had changed to smart-ass. “Got it. Gold—no big deal. Snow globe—all points bulletin. Send in the SWAT team.”

“No, it’s just…Sorry. I know you’re busy. I’ll let you go.” Marco disconnected the call before Willard had a chance to reply.

The sidewalk that led back to the harbor offered a gorgeous view of the Hoonah waterfront and Port Frederick. A couple of charter fishing boats were refueling at the public fuel dock. Two fishermen were lugging an enormous halibut toward the cleaning table. Boat traffic was coming and going.

Flat-black RIB.

Marco spun on his heels. He was certain. Motoring away from the public dock was the same flat-black RIB he had seen near Radioville—and the driver was wearing an orange stocking cap.

Guy from the library!

What was it Fresh Crab Guy had told him? The fisherman who moved his water hose into Radio Flyer’s fuel tank was wearing an orange cap as well? Marco’s fingernails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists.

Probably the same guy. Maybe one of those Pykes?

There was no way to catch him. The RIB was far faster than Marco’s boat, and the guy had a long head start. The big black outboards roared as the driver throttled up, and the sleek black boat leaped onto plane, disappearing out of sight around the bend.

Chapter 65

- .- ..- -. -

Sam Worlson’s Home—Sitka, AK

1982—Sam Worlson

The phone rang on Sam’s nightstand.

Barb rolled away from him and let out a resigned sigh.

3:04 a.m.

Who the hell?

He fumbled the handset, dropped it on the pillow, and finally got it to his ear. “Worlson. What’s up?”

“I always fancied a face-to-face meeting with you someday,” a man’s deep voice said with the smooth tone of a classical radio DJ, “but I suppose we’ve both come to the understanding that it’s not in the cards.”

Sam sat up in bed, threw off the covers, felt for his slippers with his bare feet. “Fellows?…Why? Why now?”

“Fellows, huh? Haven’t been called that in a coon’s age. It’s Thomas now. When I learned you were the police chief…” Fellows chuckled. “Well, that threw a wrench in my plans. You just couldn’t let it be, could you? Was this Chilton fellow on your payroll? Have you been on the hunt for me all these years?”